


Bedside Manner

by madame_faust



Category: The Hobbit (2012), The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Durin Family, Dwarves In Exile, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Kid Fic, bb!dorf addiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-01
Updated: 2013-04-01
Packaged: 2017-12-07 03:39:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/743775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madame_faust/pseuds/madame_faust
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fill for the kink meme: "Dwalin hurts his back and although he can move, he can only do so very carefully. Dis does her best to pamper him while he's recovering; kid!Dis being the most adorable little caretaker ever."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bedside Manner

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothing and am making no profit from this story. Read the original prompt and fill here: http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/6263.html?thread=14669687#t14669687
> 
> Before we get into this, I do have some **warnings** \- mention and slight description of **animal death** and very mild mention of **loose teeth/tooth pulling**. I know some people have a thing about teeth, so I figured I'd just let you know that it's coming up.

As was the case with most accidents this one happened very, _very_ quickly. The dwarves of Erebor were making their way over an unstable stretch of rock in the southern Misty Mountains. Those who could walked and the experienced riders accompanied the supply wagons safely over the pass. The younger dwarves were tasked with leading and riding the remaining ponies over narrow ledges.  
  
They’d been forewarned of the thin, crumbling rock near the edge of the path and warned to move the ponies slowly and hug the rock if they could, but some of their number had short memories for warnings. The last thing Dwalin heard was his father shouting, “Slow _down_ , lad!" before the stone crumbled beneath the hooves of his pony and he was falling.  
  
Some dwarves said, in moments when they were sure their end was nigh, that their lives passed before their lives. Little scenes from childhood to adulthood that gained new significance and deeper meaning. Others claimed to catch a glimpse of all their loved ones who’d passed on ready to greet them in the Halls of Waiting. Some select few thought they heard the voice of the Maker Himself.  
  
The only thing Dwalin heard was the sound of his brother and cousin screaming his name as he fell a hundred feet onto unyielding stone and rock. There was a horrible cracking, dull thud the second before he hit the ground and blackness and stars undulated before his eyes. He was in far too much pain to be dead, so he decided to count that as a positive. Dazed, but not brained, he decided, tentatively raising an arm to feel at the back of his skull. Bruised, but (probably) not cracked and not a great deal of blood either.  
  
That was as far as his tentative assessment got before he heard another slide of rocks and something landed heavily beside him. Opening his bleary eyes, two blurred outlines coalesced into the face of his father, a face masked in an expression that filled Dwalin with immediate regret for his carelessness.  
  
Fundin the Fearless he was called for his daring in combat. Dwalin had seen him look angry before, grieved and wrathful, but never saw such an expression as was now writ deep in the lines on his face.  
  
His father looked _terrified_.  
  
The ice cold guilt that spread in his chest was almost enough to make him forget the pain of his injuries. Dwarves were a hardy race, capable of taking falls and blows that would kill Men or maim Elves without fuss, but they were not invulnerable to all hurts. And falling at the wrong angle could break even a Dwarf’s stiff neck.  
  
“Not dead,” Dwalin muttered sheepishly, visibly seeing the tension ease in the veins on his father’s arms and brow. “Just stupid.”  
  
“Aye, that’s a fact,” Fundin growled, dropping to his knees and checking him over for breaks and contusions. Satisfied that it would not further injure his son to move him, Fundin pulled the lad to his feet, watching Dwalin’s face contort with pain. “As you’ve killed your mount,” Fundin observed, sparing little more than a glance at the contorted body of the pony, “you’ll need to get back up under your own power.”  
  
Dwalin glanced up at the rock where he spied two dark shapes that must have been Thorin and Balin watching them anxiously. Ordinarily, scaling such a distance would be simple for him, but even tilting his head back sent a spasm of pain bursting along his neck and shoulders. His father was watching him too closely not to notice.  
  
“Not sure I can,” he muttered, grateful that with his sunburned skin, his father will not see how his cheeks reddened.  
  
Fundin let out a sigh as strong and gusty as the wind during a storm. His youngest son was a near match for him in height and breadth, but he was strong enough to haul him over his shoulder and walk up the rocky incline with only a little trouble. It was a tribute to Fundin’s strength and stamina that he had breath enough to scold him the whole while.

“You’ve got to take care, laddie,” he grunts, tightening his hold around Dwalin’s middle. “No taking risks as don't need taking, if I've told you once I’ve told you a thousand times - ”  
  
“Aye, Adad,” Dwalin replied dutifully, cringing less from pain than the humiliation of being carted around like a sack of grain. “Sorry.”  
  
“I don’t care to hear that you’re sorry,” Fundin said sharply. “Sorry doesn’t change aught, you’ve got to show me you give half a damn by acting less daft. We’ve lost enough already, don’t you make me bury a son because he got it in his head to show off his riding on a mountainside.”  
  
That shut Dwalin’s mouth but quick. “Aye, sir,” he said, more respectfully this time. His father was right, of course. Hundreds of good souls lost their lives before they could take to their feet to flee the Mountain. How could he court danger and play with his own life when theirs were cut so terribly short?  
  
Prince Thráin leaned over the rock facing to relieve Funding of the burden of his son and once he was set on his feet Balin looked him over with a critical eye as well, patting down his arms and ribs for cracks or breaks. “M’fine,” Dwalin protested, batting his hands away half-heartedly.  
  
A little beyond the group, Dwalin heard the sound of high childish laughter. Frerin had been watching the whole thing and evidently found it terribly funny. “You should’ve seen the look on your face when you fell!” he declared, half doubled over. Dwalin liked to tease him for his inexpert riding, constantly squirming in the saddle, unable to control the pony and it felt good for the dwarfling to get a bit of his own back. “I suppose I won’t be riding behind _you_ anymore!”  
  
“You won’t be riding alongside anyone when I break your legs,” Thorin glared, thumping Frerin hard on the back of the head. Dwalin was his dearest friend and in those few tense moments before they saw him move and knew he was alright, his heart had been in his throat. “Hold your tongue!”  
  
“Lads!” with that one syllable Thráin silenced them both. They made to rejoin the rest of their camp, en route to Dunland, a place no one was happy to be journeying toward, but it was much the same as every other Mannish settlement and they’d worn out their welcome in several towns already. Dwalin moved slowly, his battered body protesting every step, but he grit his teeth and kept silent about it; he’d caused enough trouble already.  
  
Thorin and Balin kept pace with him, the former offering his own pony to ride, but Fundin interrupted him, tilting his head toward one of the supply wagons that held sacks of flour and casks of oil for bread. “Get in the cart,” he commanded.  
  
Dwalin’s opened his mouth to retort that he wouldn’t be dragged along like some old grandfather, but his father gave him a look that would brook no argument. “We have no ponies to spare for riding and you’ll only slow everyone down if we have to keep pace with you,” he said impatiently. “I’ll say it once more before I lose my temper: Get. In. The. Cart.”  
  
That was easier said than done, Dwalin actually had to be helped by his older brother - the carts were bought in a village of Men and sized for that race. Normally, using Mannish objects was not too terribly inconvenient for Dwalin, being that he was so tall, but his back was in such pain that raising his arms to hoist himself into the cart proved a challenge. Despite his elder brother’s earlier threats, Frerin took to giggling again, then ran like the wind when Thorin gave chase on his pony and Thráin shouted at them to _leave off_ in a voice that would wake the dead.  
  
Riding along in such a degrading manner was no more comfortable than walking, though it was slightly faster than trudging along on foot. Every bump in the road made the cart lurch and the pain traveled up and down Dwalin’s aching back. Fitting punishment, he supposed gloomily, but just because he deserved it, it did not follow that he found it any easier to bear.

When dusk fell and they circled the wagons to make camp, he sat in the descending darkness, arms folded looking very cross indeed. Thorin had not come by which indicated that he was in similar straits with his own father. Dwalin was considering lowering himself the few painful feet to the ground to ensure he’d at least get fed that night when a wooden bowl appeared from nowhere at the end of the cart and pushed itself toward him.  
  
At least, it seemed that way. Dwalin was no conjurer and their people would have suffered less if he could manifest bowls of stew by wishing them into existence. Thráin had forbidden both Frerin _and_ Thorin from paying visits to the youngest of Fundin’s sons because of their disgraceful conduct earlier in the day. Thorin was especially dismayed. Fundin and Balin were tasked with securing the perimeter of their camp, looking for signs of thieves or enemies in the surrounding wilderness and it would be a long while before they could bring Dwalin his supper. Surely he could see his friend for a _minute_ , if only to feed him?  
  
“I’ll do it!” his younger sister Dís eagerly volunteered. She hadn’t seen Dwalin herself all day and heard he took an awful fall besides.  
  
Her father found the idea of sending his youngest child to the edge of the camp more agreeable than giving in to his eldest, so he allowed it with strict instruction that she was to deliver the meal and take the crockery away without dawdling. Dís was nearly as excited to be given a task to complete all on her own as she was to see her cousin. Usually when she wandered the camp she had to do so with one of her brothers or another family member, to ensure she didn’t get herself lost or kicked by one of the ponies. As Fundin said, they’d lost so many to Fate that they could ill afford to lose more to accident. The logic was sound, but Dís did like to prove that she could do things herself.  
  
Taking up a bowl of stew and a mug of small ale, Dís walked to the wagon where Dwalin was recuperating, being very careful not to spill any of the meal. The bed of the wagon fell far above her head, so she reached her arms up to lay the bowl and mug on it, pushing with her small fingers until she knew they were steady enough not to tip over into the dirt. Then she took hold of the lip of the bed and hoisted herself up, short legs kicking at the air for a moment until she balanced herself on her belly and wiggled forward, looking up and smiling at her cousin who seemed surprised and pleased to see her.  
  
“Good evening!” she chirruped brightly. “Are you feeling better? I heard you killed a pony.”  
  
Dwalin folded his arms and gave the little lass a frank look. “The fall killed the pony.”  
  
“But you landed on it,” she observed reasonably. “That didn’t help matters.”  
  
“Good news travels fast, eh?” Dwalin mumbled, eyeing the stew speculatively. “That for me?”  
  
“Aye,” Dís replied, taking up the bowl and thrusting it at him. “Frerin and Thorin are sulking round the fire with Ada - they’re not allowed to go visiting tonight, but I am. I’m more sensible than them, he says. Do you want ice for your back? We haven’t got any, but Ama said it might help if we did.”  
  
Dís pulled up a bag of grain to perch on so she could sit beside Dwalin to chat. After a day of lonely riding, he couldn't say he’d rather not have the company, childish and chatty though it was. “If we had some, I’d not say no to it,” he admitted, taking a mouthful of stew. “As it is, I’ll manage. So. What news from the front?”  
  
Apart from his near-death experience, Dís informed him, the day had been very dull. One of the Ri lads got a whalloping from Mister Vigg for spooking one of the ponies that pulled the wagons and making it bolt - then their mother started _screeching_ at him about how she was the only dwarf who’d lay a hand on her children, thank you very much, “And there was an awful row,” she concluded. “But Ama got between them and sorted it. I think Nori took two beatings, though - one from Mister Vigg and one from his Ma.”  
  
Dwalin snorted, “Might do him good at that. Make him think twice before he frights the beasts.”  
  
“I don’t think so,” she shook her head, making her black braids fly about and whip her in the face. “Nori never does as he’s told.”

That was true enough. More mornings than not the camp found themselves awakened not by cock-crow or sunlight, but by Nori’s mother or, more frequently, her older son shouting at him for any number of infractions. By now, the vast majority of the exiles of Erebor agreed they’d prefer the boy be allowed to complete his mischief in peace to give the rest of them a few more minutes of rest, but none thought to bother their King about such a paltry matter.  
  
“Anything else?” Dwalin asked, swallowing down a dram of ale and wishing it was stronger; might help ease the throbbing in his trunk and limbs.  
  
Dís shrugged and shook her head, then sat up brightly and grinned at him. “I’m going to lose a tooth,” she said, opening her mouth and prodding one of her front teeth with her tongue to show him. “I wish it’d just fall out, it makes chewing hard, but it won’t let go. I can do a trick with it! Watch.”  
  
Without an ounce of respect for delicacy or a knowledge of things folks might not want to see while eating, Dís used her tongue to twist her tooth around in her mouth until it was backward and upside-down. Luckily, her audience was not unappreciative.  
  
“That’s loose alright,” Dwalin agreed. “Mind it doesn’t fall out while you’re sleeping. You don’t want to swallow it.” Stroking his beard thoughtfully he laid down his mug and offered, “I could probably have it out for you, if you like. One quick tug’ll do it.”  
  
“Really?” Dís asked gratefully. “Are you sure? Ada says you shouldn’t strain yourself, ‘cos of your fall.”  
  
Walking, riding or fighting were definitely out of the question for a moment, but Dwalin was fairly sure he had strength enough to spare on a child’s dangling tooth. “I think I can risk it,” he assured her.  
  
That was all the convincing Dís needed. She scooted closer to him, opening her mouth wide, sticking her tongue out so he’d have a clear shot. “Ah ‘ea-y,” she told him, which Dwalin assumed translated to ‘I’m ready’ in the common speech.  
  
“Right charming, you are, m’lady,” he teased and Dís only added to the lovely face she was making by rolling her eyes in the back of her head - another little trick of hers, probably learned from Frerin. Chuckling, Dwalin took hold of her tooth firmly between two of his fingers. “One,” he counted down. “Two...” and then he pulled it cleanly out.  
  
Instinctively Dís’s hands went to her mouth. “You didn’t say three!” she accused him.  
  
“But it’s over now,” he replied reasonably, handing the tooth over to her. “And faster too, than if I’d wasted time in counting. Going to put that under your pillow?”  
  
It was a superstition held among dwarrow children that if they placed a tooth beneath their pillows, a fairy would come in the night and take it away, replacing it with a gold piece. Dwalin believed it himself as a dwarfling until he was around Dís’s age. His father was away at war and his mother was running herself ragged with work and the hours of sleep she lost worrying over him. He was too young to mind much about it and only expressed dismay to find his tooth there in the morning.  
  
When he complained to his brother that the fairies had forgotten him, Balin told him the truth of it and said _Ama_ had forgotten, but not to trouble her about it because she had too much on her mind.  
  
As Dwalin made ready for bed that night he found his tooth gone and a coin beneath his pillow, just as it ought to have been when he woke. Instead of spending it on sweets for himself, as usually happened to his spending money, he bought his mother a bag of the hot spiced nuts she liked and brought them to her in the library.  
  
No one told Dís that the fairies who traded teeth for gold were merely parents who wanted to give their children a treat. Dwalin had no plans to disillusion her; her next statement made him well aware of exactly how young she was and exactly how many dreams still seemed a reality to her.

“Nah, I’ll just keep it ‘til we’re home,” she said, pocketing the tooth in a small pouch attached to her belt. “We move so much, the fairies might not know where to find us. I’ve got two saved up already, by the time we get there they might bring me enough that I can buy you a new pony with them.”  
  
Dwalin was touched by the sweet sincerity of her offer, but wasn’t about to tell her so. “That’s awfully generous. And what’ll it be for you?”  
  
“I dunno,” Dís shrugged carelessly. “I don’t see as I need much. A new knife, maybe, but I like my old one even though Grandfather never lets me sharpen it myself.”  
  
“Because you’d file the blade away to nothing,” Dwalin correctly predicted, shifting where he sat and grunting with pain. Their kind were not built for long periods of idleness and he was sure he’d not sat in one position so long since he was a babe in the cradle.  
  
Dís was on her feet instantly; standing she was not as tall as Dwalin was sitting. “Don’t do that!” she chided him. “Want me to go to Mister Óin? I’ll bet he’ll have something for you that’ll make you better.”  
  
“Don’t make bets as you aren’t sure of collecting on,” Dwalin advised. “Nah, don’t bother Mister Óin about it.” Their medical provisions were precious resources that were meant for emergencies, not for wasting on clumsy dwarrow lads who held up their travel with his foolishness. “Should be right as rain in a day or two.”  
  
Dís furrowed her brow at him in consternation. “But what can I do _now_?” she asked.  
  
“You’ve done plenty. Good food, good conversation,” Dwalin reminded her. “Can’t ask much more than that. Thanks, lassie.”  
  
Cocking her head, she smiled crookedly up at him, gap between her teeth prominent in the light of the full moon shining bright overhead. Endearing little ragamuffin she was, in her brother’s cast-off tunic, sporting holes in the knees of her trousers. Sweetest little dwarfling Under the Mountain, offering him a pony with her tooth gold. Mithril in an iron foundry, this one. “You’re welcome,” she replied, then glanced over her shoulder when she heard her name shouted in the distance.  
  
“Dís! I said no dawdling!” Thráin was bellowing, getting closer now.  
  
“I forgot! Coming!” Dís yelled back, bending to collect the bowl and mug. With her free hand she patted Dwalin on the shoulder, her touch feather-light so as not to prod his injuries. “Feel better,” she said, making it sound more like an order than a well-wish. Before she left she leaned up on tip-toe to kiss his cheek, then she scurried to the edge of the cart and jumped off, disappearing into the night.

**Author's Note:**

> I got in a little fight with my Better Self over this one. "Madame_Faust!" cried my Better Self. "You have half a dozen other stories you could be working on! What are you doing filling new prompts?"
> 
> To my Better Self I replied, "BUT IT'S LITTLE NURSEMAID DIS! HOW CUTE IS THAT?" And my Better Self agreed it was adorable and let me write. I think it was the right decision. I will be updating my WIPs soon (I hope). I've got friends in town this week so I might actually leave the house after work.


End file.
